


Copper Kiss

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, PWP, Rimming, Spanking, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10005983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Harry's not allowed to fly back to the UK without marks to remember Louis by.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You all can blame the wonderful members of my group chat for this! We were talking about rimming one night and I got super fussy and distracted in the car and ended up planning this story and writing it a few hours later. It's mostly gratuitous porn because I haven't written NEARLY ENOUGH about these boys eating ass, which is one of my very favorite things. Additional thank you to HurdyGurdy, my fabulous beta, whose there to tell me that no one in the UK says "toilet paper." Thank you, endlessly <3 
> 
> Title from he very sexy Salen song of the same name, which is responsible for the scorching lyric "Pour your metal in my mouth, lick my lips and taste yourself." OUCH!

\---

Louis shaves two days before Harry is scheduled to fly out of LAX and back to the UK. He does it quickly and gracelessly, stoned and lazy as he peers at his own blood-shot expression in their giant en suite bathroom mirror, head cocked, bits of lather clinging to his lips. He sort of _forgot_ Harry was leaving so soon because he always loses time when Harry’s home. They stay up too late drinking together and singing karaoke in the kitchen and laughing until Louis forgets every stupid lie he’s ever had to tell, grinding Harry against the marble counter and fucking him over the island before stumbling half-drunk up to the bedroom to kiss and kiss and kiss again past dawn, like teenagers, like nothing’s changed. Louis wakes up too late when Harry’s home because it seems stupid to leave the bed when everything he wants is in it, when he can settle himself most snugly against the curve of Harry’s spine and kiss between his scapulae and sigh with how wonderful it feels for his reality to be better than his dreams. Everything is _right_ when Harry’s home, basically. He forgets it has to be any other way. 

He nicks himself with the razor along the left side of his jaw. If the cut didn’t well up with blood and stain the shaving cream around it pink, he wouldn’t have even noticed it until he rinsed his face off in the sink and dabbed it dry, the scrub of his towel stinging against the raw skin. Louis winces, which just makes it bleed more, so he sticks a tiny, torn-off piece of toilet tissue to the cut. That’s how Harry finds him: sitting on the couch in joggers, smoking a bowl, and dicking around on his mobile, a piece of loo roll stuck to his face. 

Harry is sweet and doesn’t give him a particularly hard time about it. Louis would be absolutely merciless if he found Harry in a similar state, but Harry just shoulders into the living room in his gym clothes, cheeks still flushed from the cold, his workout, or both. He sees Louis, and his eyes grow wide; he yanks out his earbuds and immediately deposits himself into Louis’s lap, arms around his neck so he can kiss all over his newly smooth face. 

“Y’look like a kid again,” he mumbles, lips wet and soft and salty against Louis’s chin. He’s still sweaty from the gym, damp where Louis squeezes him. “The sweet, shy lad I met at bootcamp. With the blue denim and, like…cowl-neck jumpers. And those scarves, god.” 

“Oi, are you fetishizing my teenage self? M’I getting too old for you?” Louis asks, trying to sound indignant, but his words are coming out slowly, syrupy. Harry is heavy and too hot and smells like his boxing gloves, which smell terrible, but he’s still the very best thing in the world, and Louis has been without him all morning. “God, those cowl necks. That was a terrible time.” 

“For fashion, maybe,” Harry agrees, nuzzling into Louis’s throat and licking up it in broad, self-indulgent stripes. He has a crusted half-moon of salt by his ear where a tiny curl probably dried and left a sweat patina, and Louis thumbs it lovingly, sneaking his hand into Harry’s beanie. “But...not for other things.” He pulls back then, the bit of loo roll now sticking to his tongue, getting translucent as it falls apart. “Ugh, what is this? You’re so weird,” he licks it off onto Louis’s t-shirt before reaching over his arm and grabbing his pipe and fancy zippo, lighting up before taking a long, slow hit. Louis watches him exhale, lips so soft and sweet and wet around the smoke as he lets it go. He reaches out to touch the white billow of it, feeling distantly jealous that this smoke has been inside Harry’s lungs, where he has not. 

“I didn’t want to bleed all over everything. All over _your_ nice upholstery,” Louis explains, scratching at Harry’s sweat-damp scalp, knocking his beanie off and leaving his hair, which is currently at an especially awkward in-between phase, in an absolute ruin. 

“Mine? Why’s’it mine?” Harry asks before coughing spectacularly, voice suddenly reedy, hoarse. 

“It’s yours when _I_ get something on it, hence the…little bandage...thingee,” Louis tries to explain, trailing off and getting silent and tight-stomached when Harry leans in close, sweeping his tongue over the exposed cut, swirling and lapping at it greedily. It stings, almost too much, but Louis shivers in favor of wrenching away completely. Harry groans as he lets him go, wiping his lovely mouth on the back of his hand, and Louis thinks it’s absurd to be this in love after six years, to be so very _blinded_ by even the softest, quietest, most mundane parts of Harry Styles. He sighs; he doesn’t want Harry to fly back to London in 48 hours. It’s such a grievously unfair thing. 

“Coppery,” Harry announces, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Gimme,” Louis growls, grabbing Harry by his hoodie strings and pulling him down sharp and hard. He loves the way Harry gets breathless and melts against him, he loves the ghost of his own blood on Harry’s tongue.

He loves the way Harry brushes his knuckles down his cheeks as they kiss, how he keeps pulling back and murmuring hazy, muted things into his lips. “Smooth,” he says at least twice, stunned, like he keeps forgetting, then remembering. “So’soft,” he says a few more times, licking under the line of Louis’s cheekbone. _Not for long, love_ , Louis thinks of telling him, but words are coming slowly, and he feels lost in Harry’s mouth, the slick heat of it, the taste of his sweat, the crushing weight of his body bearing down. He has two days to remind him how rough it can be, anyway, so for now he lets it go. 

Two days pass, and Louis lets his stubble grow back in. The morning of Harry’s flight, Louis actually sets his mobile alarm because he doesn’t want to sleep through the time he needs to spend taking what’s his, but it turns out he doesn’t need it. He wakes up too early, just like he always does on the days when one of them has to leave the other, like his internal clock _knows_ that he can’t waste time, not a single second of it. He blinks in the grey morning, eyes sticky and arm cramped where it’s bent under his head, giving him the absolute maximum amount of space to adhere himself to Harry’s back. 

He tightens his other arm around Harry fiercely, nuzzling into his back before biting it. 

“Hmm,” Harry groans without moving. “S’too early for teeth,” he says then, voice thick and low with sleep, hardly more than a scrape. 

“No, it’s not,” Louis reminds him, biting down again hard, this time on the curve of his shoulder, enough to make him tense up a little, startling awake. “You’re mine, and I can bite you whenever I want to. Jeff’s taking you to the airport tonight, and I don’t want you to _forget_ how mine you are.” 

Harry melts, spreading out onto his stomach under Louis’s newly insistent, pressing weight. It’s just…that easy. He whimpers, burying his face in the pillow and arching his back, so instantly possessed, so instantly pliant for him. It drives Louis mad. “Could never forget, Lou,” he mumbles. 

“I know,” Louis whispers, propping himself up on his elbow and kissing down Harry’s back, the broad, muscled expanse of it, pale because it’s been such a sunless and rainy winter in LA this year, and they never get sun in the UK. He leaves marks on either side of his spine, getting enough meat between his teeth to really sink in deep and twist, skin and muscle shifting and fraying under his incisors as Harry bucks against the bed, bracing himself against pain and hissing in overwhelm because he hasn’t been awake long enough to slip into a space to just take it, dissolve into it like he’s meant to. Louis likes getting him this way, defenses down, raw and unprepared. “Still,” he says, licking the swell of his latest bite, tracing the half-moon of dimpled teeth marks, white and bloodless. “All mine. Want you thinking about it every second.” 

Harry lets out a broken sob, pushing his arse against Louis’s hips, his thickening cock, and _jesus_ , fuck, Louis wants it, he wants him. He grew a two-day beard just so he could get Harry spread out and begging under his tongue, and that’s what he’s gonna do, but he wants to do it _right_. Wants Harry shaking, broken. He pulls away clumsily, leaving Harry chasing heat as he struggles out of the bed. 

“Where are you going?!” Harry yelps, shooting an affronted look over his shoulder at Louis, cheeks flushed and eyes shot black with pupil, god, he’s so _easy_ , and Louis loves it, loves how little it takes to push Harry over the precipice of want and into the valley of desperation. 

“Nowhere, shh,” Louis assures him, dragging a comforting palm down Harry’s calf, squeezing lightly as he maneuvers around the footboard so that he’s standing by the side of the bed. “Just want you over the edge of the mattress. Face down, feet on the floor,” he orders, making a loose-wristed gesture in the air with his hand, thrilled at how easily Harry obeys. “Thighs apart, baby. Spread yourself so I can see.” 

Harry groans, legs quaking as he braces them wide, reaching behind himself with both hands so he can pull his cheeks apart lewdly. His hole is dark and dusky and perfect, clenching uselessly around nothing because Harry is _like_ that, always wanting something inside, made to be filled. Louis’s heart leaps into his throat as he stares, mouth filling up with spit so that he’s nearly gagging on it. “Fuck. So perfect and pretty, Harry, god. All mine.” 

Harry nods against the mattress, face a crumpled wreck already. “Yours.” 

Louis steps close and thumbs down Harry’s crack, rubbing his hole so he opens up a little, biting his lip as he watches Harry squirm. Louis fucked him last night, and Harry is still swollen from it, raw and hot against Louis’s fingers, probably a little sore. “Want me to kiss you here, baby?” Louis breathes against Harry’s ear, knuckle pressing right into him, nudging past his rim ever so slightly. 

Harry inhales wetly, eyes scrunched tight as he pushes back into the pressure. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, please.” 

“Hmmm,” Louis hums, taking Harry’s wrists in hand and pinning them above his head easily, watching Harry’s arse spring back and undulate obscenely as he lets himself go. He leaves Harry to fist into the sheets helplessly as he grabs his cheeks and mauls them, squeezing Harry so tightly that he yelps, so tightly that he leaves fingerprints, white before they fill back up with red. “Feel so good. Wanna taste you, fuck you open on my tongue, get you so wet that you’re dripping for me,” Louis murmurs, dropping to his knees by the side of the bed, between Harry’s parted thighs. “God,” he breathes, because there’s nothing, _nothing_ , in the whole of the universe that could be more beautiful than Harry on display like this, spread out and hungry and wanting his tongue. “So gorgeous, baby,” Louis whispers, kissing up the curve of Harry’s arse cheek, scraping him lightly with his chin, reminding him of how rough his face is, how much it’s going to _burn_ when he really buries himself deep.

“Fuck, Louis, want you,” Harry moans, humping the bed, circling his hips. He’s greedy for it, and Louis loves this, loves how Harry’s always willing and adventurous and unashamed about sex, forever pushing to try things that Louis hasn’t even heard of yet, how he’s always done it, even when they were teenagers. Back then, Louis had been the cautious one, worried he would hurt Harry or take things too far, worried that if Harry _knew_ how badly he wanted every single thing from him, he would somehow be scared away. Louis caught up, obviously, but sometimes the way Harry’s ready for anything, _still_ , feels mind-blowing, like a revelation. 

Louis thumbs him apart and exhales hotly over his hole, practically _drooling_ at the way Harry twitches, at the ruined sound he makes. The way that there’s nothing, nothing but this. “ _Please_.” 

Louis sighs before pressing a chaste, teasing kiss just below Harry’s tailbone, making sure his stubble scrapes up against his hole, stinging him where he’s already been fucked raw as Harry cries out, thighs spasming against Louis’s shoulders. “Good?” Louis asks, smug because he _knows_ it’s good, knows Harry lives to be hurt and used and broken and put back together again, smug because his lips are ghosting against the thin, tender skin crinkled around his hole where Harry is sensitive, where he needs more. 

“So good, Lou, please,” Harry whines as Louis nuzzles into his crack, scouring it with his beard, the shorter, more bristly stubble on his cheeks scraping the soft skin there. Harry smells like last night, like lube and latex and musk and sweat, like heat and heat and _heat_ , and Louis can’t stand being there without tasting him, tongue flicking out over the flickering rim of muscle, finally getting him wet. 

Harry falls still and makes a devastated sound. Louis forgets that he means to tease and loses himself in it a little, murmuring, “Oh, _Harry_ , taste so fucking good, _fuck_ ,” before dipping into him again, tongue wet and sloppy and hungry as he laps at his core, deep and filthy. He doesn’t want to taste condom, he wants _Harry_ , the metallic bite where he’s raw from being fucked, the salt, the bitterness, the spice, _everything_ , so he spears Harry open on his tongue, fucks up inside him desperately. 

Louis can’t really breathe, but it seems stupid to breathe when he’s here, when there’s this, with Harry all around him, his smell and his flavor and his broken huffing sounds, like he can’t breathe either, like he doesn’t _want_ to. Louis’s jaw aches with the strain of pushing his tongue into him; he’s _tight_ , even though he got fucked last night, tight enough that it’s a strain to keep him open. Louis pulls away with a lewd smacking sound, and Harry grinds back against him, rubbing his arse into his face, needy and lost, already pink from Louis’s beard. Good. 

“God, look at you,” Louis admires, scooting closer on his knees and mouthing wetly over Harry’s balls, at the sexy crease where Harry’s thighs meet the plump curve of his arse. “So lovely. Want me so bad.” 

“Your _stubble_ ,” Harry groans, arching his back. “Hurts. Hurts’so good.” 

“Gonna work you over ‘til you’re broken,” Louis promises him, biting the inside of Harry’s thigh hard enough that he has to hold him in place to keep him from bucking away from the pain, hard enough that it’s going to bruise. “Until you can’t sit or move or wear your tight trousers without thinking about my tongue in you.” 

Harry groans low and fractured, thighs trembling in the tight grip Louis has around them. He’s forcing Harry to keep still while he sucks on the spot he just bit, making it turn an angry, dappled red, everything slick with spit. Then Louis lets him go, licking his way back up up to his crack, pulling his cheeks apart again so he can drag his tongue, flat and broad, over Harry’s hole. 

Louis eats him out until his own knees ache from the floor, until his jaw hurts and his tongue is tingling to the point of near numbness. If he’s feeling the scour of Harry’s hair (which is hardly coarse, especially when it’s matted down with spit) against his lips, then he _knows_ Harry must be feeling the burn of his beard, must be stinging and raw and uncomfortable. He pulls back at some point to survey his work, sweeping his tongue over his swollen lips, spit on his chin. Harry is raw and pink and _chafed_ in some places, skinned like he scraped the soft insides of his thighs on concrete, and Louis feels _dizzy_ with the knowledge that he did this, that he can make Harry almost _bleed_ from eating him out. He pitches forward again, just to swirl his tongue over Harry’s hole, dipping the tip back into him before sitting back on his heels. “Get on the bed, baby, give your legs a break,” he orders, loving how hoarse and high and wrecked his own voice sounds. His cock, which he’s been pulling on lazily to take the edge off for a while now, twitches in his loose fist as he watches Harry clamber gratefully up onto the mattress, arse jiggling, face so terribly flushed. He’s a mess and a vision and exactly how Louis likes him, all pupil and muscles reduced to tremor, everything forgotten except how badly he needs Louis’s hands on him, his teeth. “You good, love?” Louis asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

“P’rfect,” Harry slurs, pushing his arse into the air, the dip in his back deep, slutty. “You gonna fuck me now?” 

“No,” Louis says, positioning himself behind Harry and smacking his arse hard enough that Harry buckles and lurches forward, hissing. “M’not done eating you out.” 

“Hnnggh,” Harry groans, rubbing his face into the pillows. “It feels so wet. You make me so messy and wet, Lou, m’ready for your cock,” he babbles mindlessly, missing the _point_ , the fact Louis that isn’t going to fuck him before he gets on the plane, that he’s just going to work him up so much that he’ll spend the few days they’re apart _gagging_ for it, digging his nails into the beard-burn on his thighs while he wanks, needing Louis so badly that he won’t be able to think about anything else until they’re together again. Louis smacks him again, this time on the inside of his thigh, where he’s the rawest. Harry cries out, biting the sheet. 

“Just my tongue today, baby,” Louis tells him. “Gonna make you come on my tongue.” 

“Isn’t your tongue _tired_?” Harry whines, getting back up on his knees and arching like a cat, up on all fours in the position he gets into when he think’s he’ll die if Louis doesn’t fill him up, when he’s most desperate and hungry to be dicked. 

“No,” Louis tells him, hand cracking down on Harry’s inner thigh again, then right over his other cheek, leaving his flesh a sudden, violent red. The sound of skin on skin is so _loud_ in their room, resounding off the walls, making Louis’s heart start in time with his own strikes. “Never get tired of eating you out. Could do it for hours, m’ _gonna_ do it for hours,” he says, hitting him hard one last time, this time thumbing Harry’s crack apart so that he can land the smack right _into_ him, over his twitching hole. Harry yelps and collapses onto his tummy, panting raggedly as Louis settles back between his legs, rubbing his chin over the newly red-hot skin of his arse-cheeks as Harry’s moan tapers off into a broken sob. “Shh, you’re okay,” Louis assures him, biting his cheek where it’s already swollen, one thing on top of another because there will never be enough ways in the world to destroy Harry Styles, enough ways to mark him. 

He pulls him apart again and works up a froth in his mouth before spitting directly onto Harry’s hole, which looks so fucking _pink_ right now, pink and raw and fucked out, and that’s how he’s supposed to be, twitching around Louis’s mouthful of saliva, shining with it. Louis drills his tongue into him again, moaning because he tastes even better than he looks, so _dark_ and real and _wrecked_ , raw inside from being used too hard, just hard enough. 

He fucks Harry until he can’t breathe anymore, pulling back just enough to inhale through his nose, mouth still open and drooling as Harry grinds onto his mouth, pushing his arse back onto Louis’s sloppy, laving tongue. He _could_ do this forever, spend the whole entire _day_ here until Harry has to get on the stupid plane. He’s about to pull back and tease Harry again, but he can feel a shift in his grinding: Harry's tilting his hips on the downstroke so that he’s fucking against the mattress, pushing his dripping cock rhythmically into the sheets. Louis _wants_ , though, wants to feel, so he jams his hand between Harry’s body and the bed, opening his palm so he can thrust down into it, hard and sticky-wet. 

Louis isn’t sure whether his hand feels that much better than Egyptian cotton or if it’s the _idea_ of being touched after being edged for so long on just the softness of Louis’s mouth and the scrape of his stubble, but Harry cries out like it’s too good, like he’s close. As Louis wraps his hand around his length, his body locks up, thighs spasming involuntarily. 

Everything gets fast and graceless and desperate after that; Louis’s mouth overflows as he laps at Harry’s arse, drooling so much it drips down onto the sheets, and Harry is _everywhere_ , groaning as he fucks Louis’s palm, circling his hips so his cock drives down into Louis’s grip before he pushes his arse back up against his tongue, getting it from both ends, caged and cornered. Louis lets him do whatever he wants, bringing him close, clumsy and messy and hungry with it. Louis _loves_ him like this, so lost, voice reedy and low all at once, an animal growl as he tenses up and comes hard, arse pulsing against Louis’s tongue, and _fuck_ , it’s so beautiful, feeling Harry on the inside as he shoots off in his palm. 

Harry collapses bonelessly, and Louis is left panting, Harry all over his face, his hand. “Fuck,” he says breathlessly, squeezing his arm out from under the crushing dead weight. “On your back,” he demands, and Harry does as he’s told, rolling over and still shivering all over, nipples drawn up into two tight points, gooseflesh on his ribs. 

Louis kisses him as soon as he can, claiming his mouth with his tongue and his teeth, letting Harry feel how _swollen_ he gets when he eats him out like that, how puffy his lips can be, how wet. Harry groans as he sucks on them, hands all over Louis’s shoulders, in his hair. “Coppery,” he mumbles as they part to breathe, tongue flicking out to taste the slick of spit Louis left on him. “Did you…is that your blood? Did you bite your tongue when I came?” he asks, sounding totally fucked and delirious, so shot and dizzy and drugged that Louis has to smile at him, so _fucking_ in love that it’s incredible this hasn’t killed him yet. 

“No, s’all you. Licked you raw, scrubbed you raw,” Louis explains, cupping a warm, sticky palm over the inside of Harry’s thigh, where he’s tenderest. Harry yelps, canting away dramatically. 

“Ow,” he says, pretending to pout, thumbing lovingly over Louis’s stubble all the while, belying how he really feels about the marks. “M’gonna feel that tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. You better, anyway,” Louis slurs, digging his nails in again, getting a good grip in the meat of Harry’s chafed thigh, loving the way he hisses and squirms away uselessly. “Where do you want me to come?” Louis asks, rutting into Harry’s stomach, already dazed with arousal, dizzy with how much it turns him on to be able to _taste_ Harry still on the back of his tongue, bitter and earthy and _his_. 

“My mouth,” Harry says automatically, already shimmying down the bed clumsily, limbs loose and used and unhelpful. Louis adjusts to accommodate him between his thighs since Harry isn’t doing a very good job of it, just licking his lips hungrily and staring at Louis’s cock like he _needs_ it, like he’s already thinking about the stretch in his jaw, the bliss of swallowing his load. 

“You sure?” Louis jokes, but Harry doesn’t even hear him, humming in the back of his throat as he wraps his big hand around the base of Louis’s length, jerking him once, slowly and firmly, pushing pre-come to bubble lewdly at the tip. 

“So fucking hot,” Harry breathes, almost to himself. He pulls Louis’s foreskin up around the crown as much as he can before dipping his tongue into the pocket, swirling the tip of it against the slit before he jerks down with his hand, swallowing the rest greedily. 

Louis whites out. The image alone is enough to fuck with him, Harry _so_ beautiful, his hair a wreck in two hundred different directions, lips swollen and cherry-red just from _kissing_ Louis, plush and raw like _he’s_ been eating arse for hours. Louis sighs low and quiet in his throat, fucking up into the heat of Harry’s perfect mouth as he makes a fist in the fluffy mess of Harry’s hair on the side where it’s growing back but still isn’t long enough to truly _pull_. Harry gasps around him anyway, tongue pushing up against the underside to make everything tight, and after that, Louis can’t keep his eyes open anymore, can’t watch in a stunned sort of awe as Harry takes him down all the way, even though he _wants_ to. 

Louis isn’t sure how long it takes him to come, but when Harry finally pulls off, gasping and eyes watering because he always makes sure Louis really _chokes_ him with it, he hears, “That was fast. I wanted it to last.” There’s come on Harry’s chin, and he wipes it with the back of his hand before licking it off, kissing down Louis’s twitching shaft reverently, nuzzling into the crease of his thigh where he’s sensitive, ticklish. 

“Sorry. love” Louis sighs, petting Harry’s hair. “S’your fault, though. You suck me too good.” 

Harry purrs, tilting up into the pressure of Louis’s palm, tongue still lolling out almost subconsciously to lick whatever he can reach, in this case, the tip of Louis’s thumb. “Maybe. Think you can get hard for me again soon? After brekkie, maybe?” He crawls up Louis on his hands and knees before dumping himself on top of him, soft and heavy and wonderful. They fall into a messy, open-mouthed kiss into which Harry murmurs, “You taste like my arse. Just so you know.” 

“Yum,” Louis reminds him, arching his eyebrows mischievously. “N’yeah, I reckon I can get hard again. Like, I’m not done with _you_ yet, not gonna be done with you until Jeff drags you away from me and puts you on that plane, so. There’s probably a round two somewhere in me. If you’re good.” 

Harry grins enormously, eyes so bright that Louis isn’t sure whether all the other greens in the world are truly green or if Harry’s the only real thing, with his dimples and his moles and the perfect white flash of his teeth. He cups Harry’s face between his palms and smiles back at him, heart so big that his chest _surely_ can’t contain it. “I’ll be very, very good,” Harry promises, brushing his lips across Louis’s jaw line to scour them with his stubble, and Louis doesn’t doubt it one bit.


End file.
